


Civilians Among Us

by Stormheller



Category: Forever Knight, The Sentinel, due South
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-05-25
Updated: 2012-05-25
Packaged: 2017-11-06 00:20:38
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 658
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/412649
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Stormheller/pseuds/Stormheller
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Forever Knight / Due South / Sentinel Crossover: three fandoms in a few short paragraphs. </p><p>The deployment of civilian partners within police work, as viewed by Captain Stonetree, the police captain from Forever Knight.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Civilians Among Us

**Author's Note:**

> Originally published in 2003 as "Between the Covers" in Jim and Blair Crossover from Blackfly Presses. Nominated 2004 Sizzler Award for best short crossover.  
> ***Character deaths are canon and very spoilery. ***
> 
> IF YOU LIKED THIS STORY... please check out my pro writing.   
> My gay stories here: http://www.stormgrant.com/  
> My urban fantasy here: http://ginaxgrant.wordpress.com/the-relucant-reaper-series/  
> Thank you,  
> ~ Gina / Stormy / Stormheller

Chief Stonetree nodded thanks as the mail boy dropped a disorderly heap in his “in” basket.

Ah. The latest copy of _DNA_ _Magazine_ had arrived. He certainly preferred the revised publication, _Defending North America,_ with its Canadian and Mexican content, to the previous all-American magazines he’d been receiving.

Two burly men, one black, one white, posing back to back, gazed shrewdly at him from the cover; apparently the authors of this issue’s feature story. The title was printed across their almost-touching shoulders: _Civilians Among Us: Budgetary Necessities or Vigilantes?_ by Captains Simon Banks and Harding Welsh.

Stonetree chuckled and flipped past ads for tasers, Kevlar and state-of-the-art surveillance equipment, eventually reaching the article. He’d had some luck in the past with civilians working cases side by side with his detectives. For several years the Chief Coroner had worked beside his best detective, coupling her medical and forensic skills and fierce intelligence with the detective’s uncanny ability to be at the right place at the right time. That was before Stonetree’d taken that promotion to head up the entire Mississauga Police Services Division. Captain Joe Reese had taken over the Toronto post then, and it was on Reese’s watch that Detective Knight and Dr. Lambert had been killed. It had been years ago, and they still had no leads; no idea why or by whom the couple had been slaughtered in Nick’s apartment: Natalie exsanguinated and Nick impaled on a wooden staff.

He glanced through the opening paragraphs. Apparently Banks of Cascade, Washington, had some university wiz-kid who worked with his best detective. Officially as was an observer, but anyone reading between the lines could see this kid rarely remained on the sidelines—kidnapped, held hostage, shot—not exactly the experiences of a passive observer.

He skipped the part about legal and insurance implications to see what Welsh had to say. He thought he remembered meeting Welsh one time at a conference. Yeah, Chicago PD. Had to be the same guy. And his story involved—a Mountie? Hardly a civilian by Canadian standards, but still, without jurisdiction Stateside. Well, maybe Stonetree could requisition a constable for his own staff—at least he was in Canada, although he didn’t think he’d ever met a Mountie in all his years in Toronto; not since his mom had packed them all up and left that depressed and depressing Manitoulin Island reserve.

Interspersed through the article were pictures of the two captains and their men. Jeeze, what a bunch of good-looking guys. Nick, Stonetree’s former star detective, had been a looker too—must have used half a can of hairspray every night before coming to work. But that had been the eighties; everybody had big hair then. Well, not himself and not Skanke anyway. Not enough hair to be big. Almost none now. He ran his hand absently over his nearly-bald pate, feeling a tinge of guilt that he hadn’t thought of Don Skanke in years—course, old Iron Balls Cohen had been the Captain back in those days—God, wasn’t this a night for remembering those long gone. Amanda Cohen and Skanke had been killed in that plane crash back in… ’93? ’94?

Sighing deeply, he put the magazine and the memories away for another time and returned to the paperwork on his desk. Just six short months to retirement. Then what? Maybe he’d follow the lead of the wiz-kid observer and the Mountie liaison and just keep coming to work every day, even after he had no more official jurisdiction. But not this lousy desk job—back out on the streets again, where he hadn’t been in twenty years. Who cared if he got paid, or even killed, as long as he was back out there again? He glanced out the window at the streets, shivering at the sight of new snow. Maybe they could use a vigilante in Ft. Lauderdale.

He reached for the next report in his inbox.

_End_

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End file.
